Utah County's Toxic Tradition Is Under Threat

By
MICHAEL JANOFSKY

TOOELE, Utah, Oct. 18  As other places in the United States have struggled
to keep dangerous materials away, Tooele County has welcomed some of the
deadliest things ever made: radioactive waste, ammunition, chemical and
biological weapons.

For nearly 60 years, government and private facilities here in the vast desert
west of Salt Lake City have stored and processed hazardous wastes of all
stripes, winning the county a reputation as one of America's foremost dumping
grounds.

But now, even as some lethal substances are being destroyed under terms of
federal mandates and international agreements, efforts to bring new toxic
materials into the county have set off bruising political fights, leading
to an unusual state ballot initiative next month in one case and a plea to
the Nuclear Regulatory Commission in another.

Caught in the breach are Tooele County residents who speak proudly of their
toxic traditions and insist that the county and the country have benefited
from stockpiling the material here. Since the first federal installations
opened in the early days of World War II, Tooele County (pronounced Too-WILL-uh)
has tripled in population, reaching almost 41,000 by the last census.

"We have taken on a huge share of the defense of America," said Gene D. White,
a Tooele County commissioner, referring to nearly a dozen federal and private
operations in the county that deal with things few other places want. "Instead
of getting credit, all we do is get criticized for it."

Tooele County is Utah's second-largest, at 6,930 square miles, about 84 percent
of which belongs to the federal and state governments. The gathering of dangerous
material here began shortly after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, when Washington
designated 200 square miles of its Tooele land for weapons testing. Over
the next six decades, county residents have lived alongside Air Force bombing
ranges, testing and storage sites for chemical and biological weapons, mineral
processing plants, toxic landfills and large incinerators now used to destroy
stored weapons. Almost half the nation's supply of chemical weapons is kept
at the eastern end of the county.

All the while, the county's largest towns, Tooele and Grantsville, have become
thriving bedroom communities to Salt Lake City, an easy commute 30 miles
to the east. The towns have affordable housing, scenic mountains, quiet
neighborhoods, safe distances from bombing runs and storage sites and no
evidence of uncommon health risks.

But now, even as some lethal substances are being destroyed under terms of
federal mandates and international agreements, efforts to bring new toxic
materials into the county have set off bruising political fights, leading
to an unusual state ballot initiative next month in one case and a plea to
the Nuclear Regulatory Commission in another.

Caught in the breach are Tooele County residents who speak proudly of their
toxic traditions and insist that the county and the country have benefited
from stockpiling the material here. Since the first federal installations
opened in the early days of World War II, Tooele County (pronounced Too-WILL-uh)
has tripled in population, reaching almost 41,000 by the last census.

"We have taken on a huge share of the defense of America," said Gene D. White,
a Tooele County commissioner, referring to nearly a dozen federal and private
operations in the county that deal with things few other places want. "Instead
of getting credit, all we do is get criticized for it."

Tooele County is Utah's second-largest, at 6,930 square miles, about 84 percent
of which belongs to the federal and state governments. The gathering of dangerous
material here began shortly after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, when Washington
designated 200 square miles of its Tooele land for weapons testing. Over
the next six decades, county residents have lived alongside Air Force bombing
ranges, testing and storage sites for chemical and biological weapons, mineral
processing plants, toxic landfills and large incinerators now used to destroy
stored weapons. Almost half the nation's supply of chemical weapons is kept
at the eastern end of the county.

All the while, the county's largest towns, Tooele and Grantsville, have become
thriving bedroom communities to Salt Lake City, an easy commute 30 miles
to the east. The towns have affordable housing, scenic mountains, quiet
neighborhoods, safe distances from bombing runs and storage sites and no
evidence of uncommon health risks.

But now, as the county waits to open its arms again, strong resistance is
building to new toxic imports, although it is far from clear whether the
opposition will actually stop the flow or merely delay it.

The disputes have coalesced around two entities with strong ties to the county
 Envirocare of Utah, the nation's largest private disposal company
for low-level radioactive waste, and the Skull Valley Goshutes, a small Indian
tribe proposing to build temporary storage for spent nuclear fuels headed
to permanent entombment at Yucca Mountain in Nevada.

After a dozen years of processing low-level radioactive waste, like dirt
and rubble from cleanups at former weapons plants, Envirocare won federal
and state permits to take materials with higher levels of radioactivity,
like medical waste. But as the Goshutes' proposal began drawing more controversy,
Envirocare suspended plans to seek final approval from the Legislature and
governor.

"Maybe not forever and all time," said Betty Arial, a spokeswoman for Envirocare.
"But for now, plans are not being discussed."

Gov. Michael O. Leavitt, a third-term Republican, applauded Envirocare's
decision to back off, saying he would have denied any permit for higher-grade
imports, but opponents to Envirocare were not taking any chances. Led by
Doug Foxley, a powerful state lobbyist, they collected enough signatures
to get a complex measure before voters, using the promise of desperately
needed new tax money for public education as its strongest selling point.

If passed, the measure would bar all higher level radioactive materials from
the state and raise taxes fourfold on revenues generated by low-grade material.

As both sides interpret the measure, it would affect only Envirocare, but
critics say it would require changes to more than 100 state laws, and "that's
not the way to run a democracy," Mr. Leavitt said in an interview this week.
Officials in Tooele also objected on economic grounds, insisting passage
would put Envirocare out of business, costing more than 250 county residents
their jobs and the county a quarter of its annual income, about $5 million.

"This is a scam on state government," said Teryl Hunsaker, another county
commissioner. "It will wind up hurting the state of Utah."

Mr. Foxley said, "That's nonsense and absurd, nothing but a malicious scare
tactic." Insisting that "monopolies like Envirocare" do not go out of business,
he added, "No one in his right mind spends the money to go through the permitting
process, to stop short of going through the legislative process."

The Goshutes' effort has been no less emotional. With gaming unlawful in
Utah, a band of several dozen Goshutes in Tooele County has turned to nuclear
waste as a potential revenue source. A proposed deal between the Goshutes
and a group of out-of-state utilities that needs to remove 40,000 tons of
spent fuel rods from nuclear power plants is now awaiting federal approval.

The licensing board of the Nuclear Regulatory Commission is expected to announce
in December if the technical standards for the proposed site have been met.
If so, commission staff members would consider recommending the project to
proceed.

The deal would mean millions of dollars for the Goshutes. But court challenges
are sure to follow any federal approval, and Mr. Leavitt has vowed to block
the plan.

Mr. Leavitt said he was especially concerned about the safety of storing
large quantities of nuclear material in one place, where they might be vulnerable
to terrorist attack. He said he also worries about fighter jets that train
over the area, and the occasional accidents, like cruise missiles that veer
off course, striking unintended targets, as one did recently, hitting an
abandoned trailer.

From the county's perspective, years of partnerships with the federal government
and private disposal companies have brought none of the problems that opponents
say are lurking, including health risks. Sherrie Ahlstrom, the community
health supervisor, said studies by state officials had never found any links
to illness or disease from toxic substances in the county.

Nicole Cline, a county planner who is writing a history of Tooele's experience
with waste, conceded that people often poked fun at Tooele County as the
nation's dumping ground. Her response is always the same, mindful that every
community grapples with toxic waste of some sort.